Consumer Trends Among the 'Grumpies,' Part II: Could I Please Get a Plain, Regular Car?
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a column about an underserved and ignored segment of the consumer market – me. That is, me as a typical representative of the "Grumpies" (Graying Rich Upset Male Persons).
There are lots of us Grumpies. We're wealthy (at least, in comparison to the average American's net worth). And we hate all of today's overcomplicated, electronics-invested consumer products.
In my previous rant, I mentioned how it takes an MIT triple doctorate in computer science, electrical engineering, and quantum physics to open the hood of a modern car and know what you're looking at.
Grumpies have given up looking under the hood. Except maybe to add windshield wiper fluid, and sometimes it takes a trained technician in a dealership service department to do even that. We know we're going to be flummoxed by the engine compartment.
It used to be just an engine block in there with a carburetor on top, a radiator in front, plus an alternator and exhaust manifolds. Now, emissions regulations, fuel-efficiency standards, and a proliferation of federally mandated automatic sensors mean we're faced with a pollution-control plumber's nightmare and a mare's nest of wiring harnesses all sprinkled with the fairy dust of computer chips.
More – and worse – is on its way with new forms of powertrain technology such as cars that run on renewable wind-and-solar energy. The solar energy will come from your car getting broiling hot inside while it's locked and sitting in the sun in the mall parking lot. The wind energy will come from the breeze through the window that an opioid addict smashed to snatch your iPhone.
But just because the innards of an automobile have become a skunkworks – repellent to the minds of ordinary guys – doesn't mean that the rest of the automobile has to annoy the hell out of us, too.
I want a plain, regular car – no parking assist, no lane-drift alert, no reality TV show about what's happening behind me on the touchscreen... and no damn touchscreen, either.
And absolutely no voice-activated anything. I have a black lab named Georgie. I don't want Amazon's Alexa app playing Boy George music every time I say my retriever's name.
Also, no GPS. I know where I am. I'm right here. And I know where I'm going. I'm going home. It's cocktail hour.
I'm not alone in my desire for a gizmo-free, gadget-purged vehicle. On May 11, the Wall Street Journal – a publication with plenty of Grumpie readers – ran a front-page feature titled "Help! My Fancy New Car Won't Stop Beeping." Its subtitle: "Touchy touch screens, buggy software and mystery sounds baffle drivers, forcing some to enroll in two-hour tech seminars; 'then the beeping started.'"
I bet I'm also not alone in wanting a particular kind of plain, regular car. We Grumpies tend to hunt and fish and otherwise putter around in the outdoors. We own property, tow boats, keep animals, plant shrubs, have families, etc. We want a big, honking SUV.
I personally live in a remote, rural New England town with a wife, three children, three dogs, and all the sporting goods and leisure equipment that comes with them (plus my beer cooler).
In fact, I already have a big, honking SUV. It's a Chevy Suburban – one of five or six I've owned over the past 20 years. Suburbans are good cars – commodious, sturdy, and reasonably priced if you buy them, like I do, off lease after 30,000 miles of gentle (and as it were, suburban) use as glorified minivans for soccer moms.
But the Suburbans, like all other full-size sport-utes, are too gussied up. I usually have to sell mine at around 125,000 miles (which is about when a 1960s-era Suburban was getting broken in) because all their tech gee-gaws start going whack-a-doodle.
I'd like to make a deal with manufacturers. I'll buy a brand-new Chevy Suburban (or Ford Expedition, or Toyota Sequoia, or Lincoln Navigator, or Jeep Grand Wagoneer, or whatever) and pay a large premium over suggested retail price if the car has the following features. (And lacks the features I've complained about already.)
Clearance: My local roads are so bad that the only way to tell "off-road" from "on-road" is that I encounter fewer trees in the middle of the roads than I encounter in the middle of the forests, unless an ice storm has knocked all the trees onto the roads. Speaking of which, winter around here lasts 13 months a year.
I don't just drive on stuff. I drive over stuff. And through stuff. Getting to the best bird covers and the most productive trout pools can be hell. And you don't get there on the proverbial wide road paved with good intentions.
Over the years, full-size SUVs have lost clearance as they've acquired more sophisticated, less truck-like suspensions to provide a smooth ride. Midst the potholes, frost heaves, and fallen trees of rural New England, there is no soft ride. You're the dash of vermouth in a martini shaker no matter where you're going.
No carpeting: On any surface. Due to New England's horrible weather, I use my SUV as an "indoor pickup truck." I load bales of hay in the back. The sidewalls of the cargo compartment are lined with something from the looms of the Bigelow Mill. Why? No car vacuum ever made will extract the embedded bits of hay from the carpet pile. Every time I look in the back, I'm reminded of 1968 when my friend Groovy was trying to fill the bong, tripped over the lava lamp, and spilled the baggie of stems and seeds into Mom's rec room shag rug.
Interior volume: Because my SUV is an indoor pickup truck, I don't need the third row of seats. (I figure if you're hauling around more than three kids, three dogs, and a spouse, you should get a school bus or birth control.) What I do need is space to lay a 4-by-8 sheet of plywood flat. My Suburban is two-and-a-half feet too short, and it's the longest SUV on the market. Come on, GM, these cars are already the length of cruise ships. What's an extra 30 inches? Are you afraid you won't be allowed to dock in Fort Lauderdale?
Ready to get hosed: I want to clean the inside of my car with a power washer. I mentioned I have kids and dogs. This means cola spills, gum wads, ice-cream drips, and vomited squirrels. I want metal floors and door-trim panels, rubber mats, all my upholstery (including the headliner) covered in heavy-duty vinyl, and waterproofed dials and gauges.
P.S. I have an ancient Jeep with a simple, but brilliant accessory long forgotten by modern carmakers. The Jeep's footwells have inch-wide rubber plugs. Pull the plugs, and you get drain holes.
P.P.S. Some machine-washable elastic slipcovers would be welcome, too. Make them the color of dog hair and sticky kid snacks.
Stick shift: So the kids will be less tempted to borrow my car. Kids today don't really know how to drive stick shift. At least, my kids don't. They watch me shift gears and ask, "Isn't there an app for that?"
Bench seats: Ditch the center console and give me some room for petting and necking. Plus, I've got a Brittany Spaniel, Clio, who likes to cuddle. As it is, she has her rear paws stuck in the cup holders and her front paws on the dashboard. She gets a snout-full of rearview mirror every time we come to a sudden stop.
While you're busy removing the center console... put the shifter back on the steering column. There's nothing wrong with "three on the tree." If I have a transfer case that gives me high and low four-wheel drive, I don't need every gear ratio known to man.
And don't even think about making my car a "driverless car": I'll do the driving, thank you very much. Also, those three kids of mine are teenagers. Have you ever watched teens behind the wheel? They're texting, fussing with their iPads, talking to one friend while Skyping with another, and trying to conceal cans of cold beverages that they're not supposed to be legally old enough to buy. For me, that's plenty enough of a "driverless car."
Regards,
P.J. O'Rourke